


Lie Down Forever

by rainbowodyssey



Category: Hadestown (Musical)
Genre: F/F, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowodyssey/pseuds/rainbowodyssey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you took your libations, she put on a brave face, painted with restrained grief, but now she is sitting in the back corner of the barroom and the tears on her cheeks are as dew on a petal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lie Down Forever

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for a great friend who introduced me to Hadestown in the first place!

When you took your libations, she put on a brave face, painted with restrained grief, but now she is sitting in the back corner of the barroom and the tears on her cheeks are as dew on a petal. Eurydice is fading into the grays and browns of Hadestown. Just yesterday she was bright, attended by some spark of sunlight that had somehow snuck through the wall. She was incongruous and odd, but now she is worn and threadbare, nearing the same dullness of all the other workers. Your instinct as a curator of the above-ground kicks in and you have the silly desire to bottle her like a firefly.

You make your way across the room, weaving in between dancers and drunks. Not a day has passed since the Orpheus incident and already they’ve returned to their gloomy little routines. Working themselves lifeless during the day – as much as anything can be called “the day” down here – and drinking themselves silly at night. At least the latter provides some relief, brings the color back into their cheeks. As you approach Eurydice you can see why Orpheus’ songs held so much power, enough even to threaten your husband. She is a muse worthy of the grandest Romantic. You draw out a chair beside her as she hastily wipes the tears from her eyes, ashamed, maybe, or afraid of reproach. You decide not to mention it, to spare her further grief. You bring comfort to all the brothers and sisters of Hadestown, and this sister is in dire need.

“Let me get you a drink, dear.”

She doesn’t protest, so you fetch some gin and return with two glasses. Eurydice glances skittishly at the drink and you get the impression that she was somewhat of a goody-two-shoes in earlier life. You down your own glass, just to show her that it’s alright, and she does take one small sip after that. You figure it’s her loss. She says nothing of Orpheus and you don’t breach the conversation either, so you end up discussing the fine points of maintaining a speak-easy, of administrating a mining town.

“Yes, I work in the textiles factory. Goodness, it’s a lot of work, but I’m –” she pauses, sniffles, and settles on, “ _relieved_ to have an honest income. I’m very grateful to your husband,” she tacks on hurriedly, for good measure, you assume. You laugh.

“No need to talk like that. You can be honest here, secrets stay secret in a secret establishment. At least, in any secret establishment of mine.”

She doesn’t spill, of course. She still feels too indebted to Hades and you can tell he gave her the sort of runaround he calls _special treatment_. You’ve never looked into the perks of such a package, but you trust your marriage to withstand some skeletons in the closet. It always has. You consider breaching this unspoken, half-unrealized pact of privacy but realize that even if you were to ask Eurydice, she would abashedly deny that anything untoward had occurred. And that’s quite fine with you. There is a roundness to her voice, a tonal quality that has you enamored with every word she says. You wouldn’t want to dissuade her from speaking. 

Thinking of her voice has you thinking of her lips and all of a sudden you’re planning a way to press a kiss onto them. Her words fade out and you stop listening and allow yourself to just hear while you study her face. There is a lovely softness to it, which you attest almost bitterly to her above-ground nature. There is nothing subterranean about this girl, and yet you, the wife of the most subterranean man alive, are direly attracted to her. It is only in its gloominess that Eurydice’s face matches Hades’. You wish she had no need for melancholy, but it becomes her nicely. You lean forward, murmuring about a stray curl, and after you pantomime replacing it, you kiss her. The kiss has an implication, as any other kiss does, and it seems that, despite her apparent shyness, she acknowledges its meaning. As you retract for a breath, she lays a hand on your cheek and draws you in once more. Her kisses are not shrinking. She slips her tongue between your lips with a desperate naivety. She needs to assure herself of something and you don’t allow yourself the pleasure of prying. Even _you_ recognize how dangerous pleasure is in excess, and you are flirting quite handsomely with the excessive by taking Eurydice to bed at all.

You are as eager as she, but there are workers in the barroom, so you decisively separate your lips from hers.

“Follow me, if you would.”

You rise and she laces her hand in yours. You make a point of keeping your gaze forward, down the corridor, down the stairs, down, always down in Hadestown. You enter a spare room, often reserved for the staggering sot who can’t keep himself conscious, and place her on the bed, hands on each of her hips.

“Much better, hmm?”

She tries to speak, falters, nods. You kiss again. She is still fervent, so you match her pace and quickly unbutton her blouse and remove her brassiere. Eurydice’s hands fly to your own shirt, lifting it off of you as you draw your fingers over her breasts. Her breath hitches in your mouth when you take a nipple between your fingers, a gasp puffed into your mouth when you squeeze. You allow her trembling hands purchase on your shoulders as you lower your mouth to replace your fingers. She struggles even further with your clothing, but finally succeeds in laying bare your top half. Her kisses trail down your neck in the line walked by drunkards, her careless teeth skimming your skin as you continue your ministrations. Once you’ve had your fill of Eurydice’s breasts, you present your own to her and she places her hands on them almost reverently.

“They’re shaped like pomegranates. The curve, I mean.”

“You sound like my husband, dear.”

She giggles into your ear and you throw your head back as her fingers rove over you. You can tell she’s never been with a woman before, never paid much attention to what’s above her lover’s belt, but bless her heart she’s trying and making a rather good effort, at that. As a reward, you hitch her skirt about her hips, displaying firm thighs. You press a single hand between them and she keens, immediately bucking her hips against you.

“May I … ?”

You nod and she climbs upon your lap, straddling you and grinding herself up and down, shuddering when she reaches the level of friction she’s seeking. You laugh at her excitement and her hands scrabble about your shoulders again. She appears ready to tumble from your grasp when you lift her from you. She lets out a moan, the whine of a disappointed child, and she pushes one of her own hands between her legs, desperately seeking to maintain contact. You want to see more.

“Have you touched yourself before, Eurydice? Surely as a girl.”

“I’ve, um, yes – I have.”

“Then show me how it’s done.”

Eurydice flushes and you nearly swoon at the brightness of her complexion. Discarding the rest of her clothing, she slides a tentative finger over her slit, already wet, and places its tip over her clit. She rubs the sensitive spot, slowly at first, building tension, and she is painfully aware of your intent fascination. Releasing small, moaning exhalations, she continues to circle her clit. You can see the wetness gathering as she continues and it is hardly any time at all before you simply can’t help yourself any longer. You replace her hand with your own and kiss her again, deeply. You control it, allowing none of the frantic fumblings of before, but keeping her tongue in line. If the goal is to be accomplished via a few bites on the lip, well, neither of you will be any the worse for wear. She lets out another gasp when you slide inside of her. Orpheus mustn’t have been as quick with his fingers as he was with his tongue, or else he had never conceived that he could apply dexterity in such a way. He could have played Eurydice like an instrument, and so you take the opportunity that he missed, crooking your fingers to hit the right chords. Each correct stroke is rewarded with a clear noise, full of that roundness you’ve come so suddenly to adore. You play her to a crescendo, she is quivering, arched taut like a harpstring, she fists her hands in your hair, cries out.

Eurydice slumps in your lap, disheveled and lovely with her hair mussed and her cheeks still red like wine.


End file.
